Respectable
by Deanne Stevenson
Summary: Based on Profiler, Profiled...Rated M for adult situations and language in some chapters.
1. Chapter 1

"The more things a man is ashamed of, the more respectable he is."

-George Bernard Shaw

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Detectives Gordinski and Dennison led Carl Buford away in handcuffs. Derek didn't know what to say to Gideon and Hotch, who stood silently observing the scene. He was angry that they profiled his life and found out the one thing he never wanted anyone to know. He was angry at himself for keeping the secret all of these years. And mostly, he was ashamed. He could have saved other boys from Carl's abuse by speaking up. Damien Walters would still be alive. In his own way, he was as guilty as Buford.

As they left the Upward Youth Center, Derek struggled to keep his emotions in check. He asked Hotch to drop him off at his mother's. "I have to let her know this is over," he said quietly. He said nothing on the short ride home except to give his supervisor directions. He didn't look at him or Gideon as he got out of the police car. "Thanks," he muttered and made his way to his mother's front door without looking back.

Fran Morgan heard her son turn his key in the lock and rushed to greet him. "Oh, Baby," she said wrapping her arms around him. Sarah and Desiree came in from the kitchen when they heard their brother's voice. "It is all over. They have the man who killed that boy in custody," Derek told his family. "It was Carl Buford."

"What?" "You're joking." "Derek, what happened?" All three women were hugging him and firing questions at him. "Hey, we can talk about this tomorrow. I'm really tired. Ma, do you mind? I want to take a shower and go to bed." Derek was having trouble keeping his voice even. He wasn't as tired as he pretended. He just wanted to be left alone.

"Sure, Baby," Fran Morgan said, looking at her son with concern. She knew there was more than what he was saying, but she knew better than to push. Her boy would talk to her when he was ready.

Derek took a long shower. He felt dirty. He wanted to wash it all away, the humiliation, the rage, and the guilt. Especially, the God damned guilt. He dried off without as much as a glance at himself in the mirror. He turned out the lights and climbed into his childhood bed. In the darkness he covered his eyes with his arm and, for the first time in his adult life, he cried himself to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

"The most important thing is to be whatever you are without shame."

Rod Steiger

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Derek flew out of O'Hare at 6:55 on Sunday evening. His mother and sister cooked a chicken dinner before he left. He and Desiree played Scrabble while Sarah and Fran worked in the kitchen. Desiree didn't enjoy cooking, and was happy to leave the chores to her mother and older sister. Derek was happy to be eating home cooked food. Left to his own, most of his meals came from the microwave.

The last few days of his vacation were untroubled. He painted his mother's front bedroom and put up a ceiling fan. He did some yard work and installed a remote starter in her car. Fran never questioned her son about Carl Buford, and Derek was grateful not to have to talk about it. While he struggled to come to terms with his past, he wasn't ready to discuss it with his family.

The flight into Richmond was almost two hours. After an hour's drive home, Derek was in bed before eleven. He wanted to get an early start in the morning.

Derek went to the gym for an hour before going into the BAU. Working out always helped him deal with stress. He was apprehensive about having to face Hotch. He knew they would have to discuss what happened in Chicago.

He arrived at the BAU office before eight, something that was rare for him. Before he could approach his supervisor, he found a memo on his desk. "See me in my office when you come in, A.H." Derek took a deep breath. He noticed he was a little sick to his stomach. Perhaps he wasn't as ready for this as he thought.

Aaron Hotchner saw him approach his open door. He put aside the file he was reading. "Come in, close the door." He motioned for Derek to take a seat. Hotch was quiet for several seconds before saying anything. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Derek felt a small wave of panic, wondering if he could really have this conversation.

"I want you to know that no one on the team, except for Gideon and I, knows about what happened to you. There was no reason for anyone to know," Hotch said evenly.

"Thank you," Derek said, breathing an involuntary sigh of relief.

Hotchner paused another long moment before speaking again. "Do you know anything about me? Where I come from?"

"Excuse me?" Derek replied cautiously, wondering where the conversation was headed.

"What do you know about my background?" Hotch leaned back in his chair, looking at Derek.

"I, uh," Derek hesitated, "figured you come from money. You've said your father was a lawyer. Hell, Hotch, you graduated Harvard Law. Why?" He was uncomfortable and wished his boss would get to the point.

"My family," Hotch began very slowly, "is one of the oldest in Virginia. My father was a much respected attorney. Used to play golf with the Vice-President. He was considering a run for the Senate the year he died. My family," his words sounded contemptuous, "had the best of everything. We had the finest educations. Moved in the best circles." He drew a long breath, and said venomously, "and my esteemed father was a damned drunk. He was a sociopath who loved nothing more than his women and his gin."

Derek had never heard Hotch speak with so much emotion. He listened transfixed, not knowing what to say.

"My father," Hotchner continued, "slept around on my mother for years. He beat the hell out of her every time he got drunk. When I got old enough to try to stand up to him, he beat the hell out of me. Whenever we had bruises, we hid them. If we couldn't hide them, we joked about being clumsy or accident prone. We kept our secrets. We were a respected Virginia family."

Derek noticed Hotch was shaking. There were tears in his eyes but his voice was bitter.

"When none of us cried at his funeral, everyone thought we were just proud. The truth was, we were relieved as hell it was over." Hotch wiped a small tear that trickled down his face. He took another deep breath and quieted his voice. "So before you get hung up about me knowing your secrets, you need to consider, we all have secrets."

Hotch wiped his cheek again with the palm of his hand, and cleared his throat. His voice was normal now, "We have a meeting in the round table room at ten. I left two files on your desk you need to review before then. You'd better get started."

Derek realized he was being dismissed. "Hotch," he said hesitantly. He was searching for words but couldn't find them. After a pause, "I'll see you in the meeting."

Hotchner didn't look up. He was reading through the case reports again as if the conversation never happened.

Derek went to the coffee station and filled his cup. He was numb with disbelief as he sat down at his desk. He thought about what Hotch had revealed to him and appreciated how difficult it must have been for him. He took a sip of his coffee and opened a file. He and Hotch would never again mention their secrets.


	3. Chapter 3

"The basis of shame is not some personal mistake of ours, but the ignominy, the humiliation we feel we must be what we are without any choice in the matter, and that this humiliation is seen by everyone." Milan Kundera

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Morgan had trouble concentrating on the cases he should have been studying. His mind kept drifting back to his conversation with Hotch. Although Hotch assured him the team didn't know his history with Carl Buford, Derek was nervous about facing them. Supposed Hotch was wrong? Perhaps they had figured it out? Their business, after all, is investigation.

Derek's palms were sweating when he picked up his coffee and files, and headed down to the conference room. He walked in with Prentiss. After the usual "how was your weekend" chatter, to Morgan's relief, the morning proceeded like any other.

When they broke for lunch, he was the last one to leave the table. He was still writing some notes when Gideon stopped beside his chair. He put his hand on Derek's shoulder. "Everything okay?"

Morgan tensed. "Sure, everything's fine." Please, Gideon, I don't want to talk, he thought, anxiously.

"Son, if you ever need to speak with me, you know where my office is." Gideon squeezed his shoulder and walked out of the room.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

As the days went on, Morgan was almost able to put the trouble in Chicago out of his mind. No one at work brought it up. Although his family had to know there was more to his story, they never asked him about Carl Buford after the night he was taken into custody.

The body of the boy Derek found dead in 1991 was exhumed, as was the boy murdered five years ago. Eventually, forensics tied three murders to Buford. As the investigation progressed, it was sometimes updated in the news. Regardless, Morgan never spoke of it to anyone, except for James.

Once or twice a week, he spoke on the phone with James Barfield. They would discuss school, sports, and James' problems with girls. They would talk about the investigation. Morgan was supportive and encouraged James to keep helping the police. He promised James he would come to Chicago to be with him when he testified in court. As Morgan predicted, other boys came forward and talked to the police about the sexual abuse Buford had perpetrated on them. In the end, Carl was a monster worse than anyone imagined.

The first night that he woke up breathless, sweating and sick, Morgan didn't understand what was happening to him. He had been dreaming of Damien Walters. He could see the kid playing football with him and James. His mind flashed to the crime scene photos showing the boy's bluish face. In his vision, he saw Damien's lifeless eyes staring up at nothing, a garrote bound tightly around his neck.

It took Derek a long time to go back to sleep.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Buford's murder trial was scheduled to begin in May. Morgan was going to Chicago for James, but he was dreading it. As the time approached, Morgan's nightmares increased. Instead of an occasional dream, he found himself awakened several nights a week, haunted by disturbing images from his past. Sometimes he dreamt of Damien. Other nights, he saw the body of the boy he had found so many years earlier.

The nightmares began to affect his work. He was tired most of the time. Sometimes, he struggled to stay awake in the morning briefings. Hotch noticed and coldly suggested that he "curtail his nightlife." He was behind in his paperwork. He began drinking before he went to bed, hoping it would help him sleep all night. The alcohol didn't help. It merely left him hung over in the morning and feeling worse than before.

It was a Friday in April when Morgan received the subpoena. He was just getting home from work. Sometimes he was required to appear in court to testify in cases he had investigated. At first, he wasn't concerned when he received the notice, until he saw it came from Chicago. Derek was being summoned as a witness against Carl Buford.


	4. Chapter 4

"In times of great stress or adversity, it's always best to keep busy, to plow your anger and your energy into something positive." Lee Iacocca

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Morgan woke up on Sunday with a monstrous headache. Looking at his watch, he saw it was well past noon. Damn, even his eyes hurt. Sitting up, it took him awhile to reconstruct the last several hours. He recalled being in a club, dancing. He'd had way too much to drink but at the time he didn't care. All he wanted to do was stop feeling. How the hell did he get home? That's right, she drove, the girl sleeping on the other side of his bed. What the hell was her name? Sophia? Sonya? She had said she knew him. She worked in the FBI's payroll department or something. He couldn't remember ever seeing her before, but she was very pretty.

Derek went into the bathroom and swallowed two aspirin with a tall glass of water. He brushed his teeth and shaved. He still felt rotten but he looked better. By the time he came out of the shower, she was awake. She was a petite girl with large, full breasts. Her skin was olive. She was possibly Hispanic or Italian. He sat down on the bed beside her.

"Good morning," he said, trying to sound casual. He deliberately avoided calling her by name.

She had gorgeous eyes, dark with thick lashes. He remembered those eyes looking at him when they made love. Now, they looked sad. Derek reached out to stroke her long hair.

She recoiled when he touched her, as if she were afraid. Or repulsed?

"What's wrong?" There was something in her face he didn't understand.

She didn't answer him.

"Sophia?"

"My name is Sonya," she said softly, turning away from him. Tears welled in her eyes.

Suddenly, it came back to him. How angry he was when he went out! The stinking subpoena! He was going to have to testify to things he simply wanted to forget. Everyone would know how he'd kept silent. They would know the price other boys paid for his cowardice, three of them with their lives.

He didn't make love to the girl, he fucked her. Two times? Three? Damn, he couldn't remember. He tried using alcohol and sex to numb his pain. In the end, he only succeeded in degrading Sonya and giving himself a hangover.

"Derek, please, don't be so rough. Please, Derek." He could hear her voice in his head. "Oh, Sonya," he said, quietly. He closed his eyes.

Sonya was crying. He had to choke back his own tears. And, he did know her, from the Christmas party, from the office picnic, from other FBI events. She liked him. They had flirted. Someone in the office had told him Sonya had a crush on him. When he saw her in the bar last night, he asked her to dance. She looked so happy. What the hell had he done?

It took a long moment before he could talk without his voice breaking. "Sonya, I am very sorry." He gently took her in his arms. He felt her stiffen. "I never meant to hurt you. I was drunk. I didn't realize what I was doing. Please, please, forgive me," he said, as genuinely as he'd ever said anything in his life.

Her body relaxed. "It's alright," she replied.

He knew it wasn't. He could see the hurt and disappointment in Sonya's beautiful face. Derek knew there was nothing he could do or say to make it right.

"Could you drive me home now?"

They were silent as he drove her to her apartment in Stafford. Tomorrow he would send her flowers and apologize again but there was no way to make it up to her.

After he dropped her off, he went to the gym. He furiously punched a bag until all the emotion was out of him. Morgan knew he couldn't go on like this. When he finished his workout, he called Gideon from his car.

"Gideon, do you have any time tomorrow? I need to talk to you." He heard the desperation in his own voice.


	5. Chapter 5

"Guilt is the source of sorrow; 'tis the fiend, the avenging fiend, that follows us behind with whips and stings."

-Nicholas Rowe

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Jason Gideon was reading through the file on a serial rape case for the Alabama State Police. Tonight he would work up a profile of the unsub and fax it to them. He glanced at the clock. 5:10 p.m. Morgan was late. He wondered if the agent was going to keep his appointment. Morgan had called him yesterday asking if there was a time he could meet with him. Gideon couldn't mistake the urgency in the young man's voice. He had been concerned about Morgan for weeks, ever since the trouble in Chicago.

Most of the staff was gone for the day when Morgan headed up to Gideon's office. Gideon was making notes in the margin of a file when he entered. He peered at Derek over the rim of his specs. "Close the door and sit down." He wrote something in the folder before putting it aside. "I'm glad you didn't change your mind about seeing me," he said, taking off his glasses.

Derek smiled, nervously. "I'm sorry I'm late. I, uh, almost did back out," he confessed. He sat down, not really knowing what he was going to say.

Gideon leaned back in his desk chair, gazing steadily at Morgan. He came right to the point. "How long have you been having nightmares?"

Derek was startled. "Uh, several weeks…since I came back from Chicago. How did you…?"

"I've studied human behavior for thirty years. Don't you think I can see it when someone on my staff is in trouble?" He frowned at Morgan. "And stop drinking. You're only going to make matters worse."

Gideon's directness made him uncomfortable. "I, uh, tried having a couple of drinks at night to help me sleep," Morgan said, embarrassed.

"Right." Gideon sounded irritated. He knew Morgan was drinking more than that. "Tell me what your nightmares are about?"

Derek hesitated for a minute. "Gideon, maybe I've made a mistake." He started to get up. "I'm not sure I can talk about this."

"Sit down." Gideon's tone was firm. "You can't sleep at night. You're drinking too much. You're having problems doing your job. What demons are chasing you, Morgan?"

Derek sighed. He sat down without protesting. Damn, he was tired. He didn't sleep much last night. He stared down at the carpet, wondering if he could confide in his superior.

"Tell me what you dream about?" Gideon asked again.

Morgan shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Without looking up, he said, "I dream about the boys."

"What boys?"

He took a long breath before he answered. "I don't always see their faces, Gideon. Sometimes, it's James Barfield, or Damien Walters. Sometimes, it's a boy I don't know."

"What happens in the dreams?"

"Damn, Gideon. I see that son-of-a-bitch, Buford. I see him grinning. He tells the boy he wants to play 'the game.'"

"What is 'the game'?"

Morgan was clearly distressed about telling the story. He couldn't look at Gideon. Once again, he shifted uneasily. He cleared his throat. Finally, "he used to call it…uh, 'penis tag.'"

Jason proceeded gently. "Tell me what happens."

Derek began slowly. "In my dreams, Carl tells the boy to take his clothes off. He wants to look at him while he...uh, plays with himself. And Gideon, damn Gideon, it's like I can feel it."

There was increasing agitation in Morgan's voice, as his story began to tumble out. "The kid is terrified. He wants to run away but he can't. He's too afraid of Carl. And Carl tells him to touch him. And he laughs, the son-of-a-bitch laughs. 'Penis tag,' he says when the boy touches him. And Gideon, oh my God, Gideon, and then he tells the kid to come closer. He wants to play 'tag' with the boy's penis."

Morgan often closed his eyes, as if he were seeing the vision in his mind. It was obvious that Morgan's nightmares were entwined with his memories.

"And he keeps telling the boy he's 'beautiful' while he's touching him. Then he puts his mouth on him…And, oh God, Gideon, I see him making that face, that grotesque grin that he makes when he's getting off. 'Score, that's a score,' he says when he cums, and he laughs some more. God damn, I hate that fucking laugh. And Carl, he would drink when he did that stuff to us. And Gideon, you could smell the whiskey on him, so God damned bad you wanted to gag. Even when I dream, I can fucking smell him."

"Is there anything else?" Gideon said, softly. His voice didn't betray how disturbing he found Morgan's story.

"God, Gideon, I see the dead boys sometimes, Damien and the other two boys. I see them strangled. And Carl, he's tying something around their necks. He's choking them. I can see them struggling, trying to breathe. He, he holds them until they stop moving. And his eyes, Gideon, Carl's eyes, they're all glazed over, and he's making that same evil, fucking grimace, like he's getting off."

Derek felt sick. He was having trouble catching his breath. He took some deep breaths before he continued. "I know it's crazy that it bothers me so much. I look at crime scenes all the time, worse than those kids, and it doesn't get to me, but this…this is…uh…"

"Personal?"

"Yeah."

Gideon understood how painful it was for Morgan to talk about his experiences, but he thought it was important to encourage him to continue. "Tell me how these dreams make you feel."

He twisted again in his seat. What must Gideon be thinking about him? It took him a long while to answer. "Guilty," he said, at last.

"Why guilty?"

He looked at Gideon, surprised. Why? How the hell could he not understand?

"Why do you feel guilty?" Gideon repeated.

"Come on, Gideon." Derek's tone was pleading. Damn, he didn't want to talk anymore.

Gideon didn't relent. "I want you to verbalize to me why you feel guilty."

"Damn it, Gideon! What do you expect me to say?" He resented being pushed.

"Tell my why you feel guilty." He persisted.

Morgan was feeling sick again, the way he felt when the nightmares startled him awake. He wiped some sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He took a deep breath, trying to relax. He answered as calmly as he could, "because I didn't tell."

"What?"

"BECAUSE I DIDN'T TELL!"

Anger flashed in Derek's eyes. In that instant he hated Gideon for making him say it.

"HE HURT THEM AND I COULD HAVE STOPPED HIM!...HE KILLED THREE OF THEM…BECAUSE…I...DIDN'T…FUCKING…TELL!

Derek was a strong, athletic man. Gideon wasn't sure of his reaction if he pushed him too hard, but he had never known him to lose control. He continued. "How old were you when Buford began to molest you?"

Molest. Damn, Morgan hated that fucking word, but he answered…"Thirteen."

"You were a child."

"I was a coward," he said.

"How old is your friend? What's his name? James? The boy in Chicago you mentor."

"Yes, James. He's almost sixteen."

"Why isn't it his fault? If he had spoken up sooner, the Walters boy might still be alive. Why don't you blame James for not telling?"

Morgan was annoyed by the question. "Because he's just a kid. You can't expect him…" He looked at Gideon, realizing the point he was making.

"Exactly."

Derek closed his eyes. He covered his face with his hand. He was so damned tired. He'd only slept two or three hours last night. It was hard to think clearly. Why the hell did he tell Gideon so much?

"Damn, Gideon, I have been in law enforcement for over a decade. I knew what Carl was and I didn't do anything to stop him," he said, miserably.

He didn't know when Gideon got up, but the older man was beside him, his hand on his shoulder. "You need help with this, Morgan. Anne Holloway can see you after work tomorrow. She can prescribe something to help you sleep. Something for stress, too, if you need it."

Dr. Holloway was the psychiatrist on staff at the FBI. Morgan liked her from what he had seen. He had attended some of her classes. She was very down to earth and had a wicked sense of humor. He enjoyed her lectures. Maybe he could talk to her. He wasn't sure.

"Gideon, I don't want to lose my job."

"I was on medical leave for six months after the Adrian Bale case. Anne treated me for PTSD. Still does. And, I still work here."

Morgan knew he had to do something. He was desperate enough to take whatever hand was offered to him. "Tell Dr. Holloway I'll be there," he ceded.

Derek was light-headed when he stood up. He steadied himself with the back of the chair. "Thanks, Gideon," he said, sincerely.

"Are you okay?"

Morgan managed a slight smile. "Fine," he lied.

He quickly made his way down to the main floor. It was late. All of the office cubicles were empty. He was grateful that he was alone. He rushed into the restroom and vomited.


	6. Chapter 6

"When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives means the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand."

-Henri Nouwen

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Penelope stirred the tomato sauce that was simmering on her stove. She tasted it and smiled happily. Perfect! The meatballs were the best she'd ever made, if she said so herself. The salad was in the refrigerator. She could heat the garlic bread and put the pasta on when Derek arrived. Everything was ready. She went to the bathroom mirror and checked her makeup. She was just coming out when the doorbell rang.

Every month or so, Penelope Garcia invited Morgan to dinner. She knew he either ate out or microwaved most of his meals, so he was always delighted when she offered to cook for him. There was a special reason she wanted him come tonight. He was flying to Chicago tomorrow to testify in the Buford case. Although he never told her, she knew he was worried about it. She always knew when he was troubled, and she didn't want him to spend the evening alone.

Ever since his arrest in Chicago, he was different. The warm smile, he once flashed so easily, had disappeared. He didn't flirt and he rarely joked. When he called the computer tech research something for him, he was generally serious. He frequently seemed tired and distracted. Everyone noticed the change. There was considerable speculation about it around the office…Derek was having women trouble…He was worn out, too much partying…Maybe he was drinking…He was just burned out. It happened with a job like his… Perhaps he was sick. He looked like he'd lost weight...Maybe there were problems with his family…The only thing Derek's colleagues really knew was, despite his friendly demeanor, they really didn't know him.

"Hey, Sweetie," she said, cheerfully, as she opened the door.

"Hi, Pen…Um, smells good in here." He kissed her on the cheek and handed her a bottle of Italian wine.

"Of course, it does. That's the aroma of my world famous pasta sauce," she joked, as she put the wine on ice. "Remote is on the coffee table. ESPN is Channel 58." She turned on the pot of water for the spaghetti. "I hope you're hungry. Everything will be ready in about fifteen." Penelope was determined to make the evening as pleasant as possible for him.

She never meant to pry into his business. For as outgoing as he seemed to be, she knew Derek was a private person. She did all that research when they profiled him. Gideon told her to look into his life. She never embarrassed him by telling him what she found, but wasn't hard to put the pieces together. Carl Buford was Derek's mentor. He was indicted on murder and child molestation charges…Oh…my…God!

She understood that his problems in Chicago reopened deep wounds in her beloved friend. Her job required her to know where the BAU team could be reached at any time. They were always on call. She knew Morgan had scheduled appointments with Anne Holloway. Penelope hoped that the respected doctor could help him.

Perhaps it was the wine? They had finished the bottle he'd brought with dinner. When it was gone, Penelope refilled their glasses with white zinfandel from a box in her refrigerator. Her taste in wine was not very sophisticated but he didn't seem to mind. Soon, they were laughing and, for awhile, the old Derek had returned.

After she loaded the dishwasher, she sat down on the sofa beside him. They rented "The Wedding Crashers," and laughed until their sides ached. Next, she talked him into "The Notebook," her personal favorite. He stretched out on the sofa, his head resting on a pillow in her lap. Penelope was only slightly annoyed when she realized, twenty minutes into the movie, that he was asleep.

When he awoke, he saw her crying. He thought it was the bittersweet ending of the film that had stirred her emotions. He sat up and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "You're such a romantic, Pen," he said, sweetly. He wouldn't have guessed that she barely saw the movie. Most of the time, she was simply watching him sleep, wondering if he would ever comprehend how much he meant to her.

He took the wine glasses into the kitchen. When he came back, he had two of the chocolate biscotti she'd made for dessert. He handed one to her, and sat down beside her to watch the 11 o'clock news. They were only half paying attention. He was busy telling her again what a great cook she was, when a news story caught their attention. They heard the reporter saying "….about noon, after an incident with another inmate. Buford was taken to Chicago's Lakeshore Hospital where he later died. Buford, 54, was scheduled to go on trial Monday for the murder of Damien Walters last December."

Instinctively, Derek reached for her hand. Penelope quietly pulled him close to her. She held him for a long time, wishing she could heal every hurt he'd ever endured.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

"The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief or bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing, and face with us the hour of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares."

-Henri Nouwen


	7. Chapter 7

WARNING…Spoilers for "Lucky"

It is seven months since the death of Carl Buford. Jason Gideon has retired from the FBI. Morgan feels the loss of the first person he was able to confide in. Gideon has been replaced by David Rossi, a man with whom he has a somewhat antagonistic relationship.

Penelope Garcia has been invited out on a date by a very handsome man she met in a coffee shop. At the end of the evening, the man drives her home. He hugs her, says "goodnight," and shoots her as she stands by her front door.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

EPILOGUE

The news had hit him like a punch in the gut. "S-Shot? Hotch, how the hell...?" Morgan was trembling so badly, he had to sit down.

"She's in surgery at Potomac Hospital. Rossi and I are on the way to the hospital now. They didn't have any information on her condition yet." Hotch sighed. Derek could hear the distress in his supervisor's tone. "I'm sorry, Morgan," he said, quietly. He hated having to make this phone call.

Derek had trouble finding his voice. Finally, "I'll be right there," but he didn't move. He sat for a long moment, staring at the cell phone in his hand, as if he didn't believe the words that had come from it. Penelope shot? Who the hell would hurt Penelope?

After he was able to absorb what he'd heard, he grabbed his jacket and keys, and headed out the door. There was a pain in the pit of his stomach, as he drove up US1. He didn't speed. He didn't even hurry to get there. He dreaded what he may have to face.

From the highway you could see the steeple of St. Francis of Assisi Church. Morgan had to pass St. Francis every day on his way to FBI Headquarters. He had even been inside once a few years ago, when one of the secretaries got married, but he had never attended Mass there. He hadn't attended Sunday church services in years. Tonight, he felt compelled to stop.

He parked his SUV and made his way up the stone steps to the heavy double doors. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he really should go in. His hand shook slightly as he pulled open the door and entered. Instinctively, as he'd been taught as a small boy, he dipped his fingers into the Holy Water font at the back of the church and made the Sign of the Cross. He sat down in a back pew.

The church lights were dim. Candles flickered in candelabras throughout the church, creating an ethereal glow. Except for an elderly woman in a front pew saying the Rosary, he was alone. He gazed at the large crucifix hanging on the wall above the altar. The thoughts that filled his head were bitter.

"I don't know why I came in here. It's not like you're going to be any help. You gave up on me a long time ago…long before I gave up on you…WHY, God? What the hell did I do that was so bad?"

His mind drifted back to the painful events that changed him forever.

"You let those men shoot my father. I was TEN. I was fucking... ten…years…old! Why MY dad? He was the best guy in the neighborhood, and you let them kill him. My mom had to work all the time, and still struggled to pay our bills…Why did you do that to us, God?...Why did you do it TO ME? My mom couldn't help me. She already had so much to worry about. If my dad had been there, it never would have happened…Carl, fucking Carl Buford wouldn't have happened...For awhile, I was so damned happy. I felt like I had a father again. He did the stuff my dad did with me. We played ball. He took me places. We could almost talk that way I could talk with my dad. I thought I was so lucky…until the son-of-a-bitch started using me. Thanks a lot, God. DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID TO ME...DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE MADE ME DO TO HIM?"

Angry thoughts continued racing through his mind.

"Was I such a bad kid you wouldn't help me? I went to church every day, every fucking day...I begged you, I BEGGED you to make him leave me alone. I asked you over and over, make him stop, make him go away, make him die, anything, just, please God, don't let him do it anymore…You never heard me…DO YOU KNOW HOW DIRTY AND ASHAMED I FELT?"

After his arrest in Chicago, Derek's nightmares started. When they became so bad he thought he was losing it, Gideon persuaded him to seek treatment. With Gideon's help, and his sessions with Dr. Holloway, he had been able to find some peace. The dreams, thankfully, only troubled him occasionally now. Carl's death made it easier for him to put his past behind him, too.

Derek never talked to Penelope about what happened to him. Deep down, he knew she had to know, but she was kind enough to pretend she didn't. He loved her for that.

The night before he was scheduled to go to Chicago to testify against Buford, he was so apprehensive, he was almost ill. Garcia invited him to dinner, and spent time with him when he needed someone the most. She made him forget. She made him laugh, and he loved her for it.

Penelope had been his best friend for so long, he couldn't imagine life without her. She could brighten his day with her smile, or a joke. She could be serious when he needed someone to listen. She hugged him when he needed the comforting touch of another human being.

His vision of the crucifix blurred through the tears filling his eyes.

"You owe me one, God…I'm not asking for me, but for Penelope. Please, don't take her." The plea repeated in his mind like a mantra. He didn't remember kneeling down, but he was on his knees when he became aware of the cell phone vibrating on his belt.

He stood up and quickly went outside to take the call.

"Derek, where the hell are you?" Hotch asked, impatiently.

"I'm sorry. I had some car trouble. I, uh, had to change a tire," he lied. "I'll be there in a few minutes." He didn't want to ask about Garcia. He was afraid of what Hotch was going to say.

"You need to be here. She'll be waking up soon."

"She's okay?" He was incredulous.

"Yes, she's in recovery. She has some family coming from Florida, but they won't be here for several hours. You should be here when she wakes up."

Morgan closed his phone, and clipped it back on his belt. He paused when he reached his car and looked up at the night sky. In the light of a million stars, he whispered, "thank you."

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

"Take the first step in faith. You don't have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step."

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.


End file.
